Murder in Steeple Martin (18 page)

‘Do they know about it, then? Him being trapped?’ asked Libby.

‘Must do,’ said Harry, going pink.

Peter looked at him for a long time without speaking.

‘You told them,’ he said eventually.

‘Not exactly,’ said Harry, looking trapped himself.

Libby stood up. ‘Our cue to leave, Fran,’ she said.

Fran pushed her chair back so quickly it nearly fell over.

‘Lovely to see you both,’ she said hastily. ‘Hope I’ll see you at the end of the week. Good luck with the play.’

Peter smiled with obvious effort, while Harry swung out of his chair and kissed Fran’s cheek before giving Libby a hug. ‘Wish me luck,’ he whispered in her ear.

‘Now I really am worried about Harry leaving,’ said Libby, as they walked back down the High Street. ‘Either of his own accord or because Pete throws him out.’

‘Lover versus brother,’ said Fran, nodding.

‘Bloody hell. Why is everything so complicated?’ said Libby with a sigh.

Fran stopped dead, her hand to her mouth.

‘What?’ said Libby. ‘What is it? Fran, tell me, quick!’

Fran looked at her forlornly.

‘I forgot to pay the bill.’

Libby laughed. ‘Well, we’re not going back. I’ll take it round tomorrow. Come on, time for a nightcap.’

They were settled in front of the fire again with a bottle of whisky Fran had bought from the village shop along with the papers that morning, when Libby looked up.

‘Do you know,’ she said, ‘we’ve never asked how Paula died?’

Fran looked surprised. ‘I assumed you knew.’

‘No. I didn’t ask the sergeant – or maybe I did – but it was definitely a need-to-know situation, and he wouldn’t have told me. And no one else has said anything, even David.’

‘No, he didn’t. But she was hit on the head, wasn’t she?’

Libby stared.

‘Oh, I’ve done it again, haven’t I?’ Fran sighed.

‘Well, yes, I suppose you have.’

‘Sorry. But I’m sure she was. And I’m pretty sure it wasn’t where she was found.’

Chapter Twenty-one

L
IBBY PHONED
T
HE
P
INK
Geranium the next morning hoping to hear Harry’s voice.

‘Yes, he’s here,’ said Donna. ‘Doesn’t look very happy though.’

‘Hello,’ came Harry’s voice. ‘Who’s that?’

‘Me. Fran forgot to pay the bill. She’s left me the money.’

‘Didn’t even notice,’ said Harry, ‘under the circumstances.’

Libby tried to think of something non-confrontational to say.

‘Go on, then, ask me,’ said Harry, ‘you know you want to.’

‘As long as you’re still here,’ said Libby, clearing her throat.

‘You thought he’d chuck me out? Yeah, so did I.’

‘But he hasn’t?’

‘Not quite. I think the attitude is “You’d better hope they come up with the real murderer pretty damn quick.” Or I’m history.’

‘Oh, Harry, we all know James didn’t do it.’

‘Ah, but do the police? You should have seen them when I let slip about what we all felt about Paula. All their little ears pricked up.’

‘Is that how it happened, then? You didn’t volunteer the information?’

‘What do you take me for?’ Harry sounded indignant. ‘I told you it just slipped out. They were asking me how well I’d known Paula and how I felt about her. So I was telling them.’

‘Doesn’t Pete understand that?’

‘If it was anyone else he would,’ said Harry, ‘but this is precious baby brother.’

Libby sighed. ‘It’s all so difficult. I wish we could just forget about it.’

‘No chance, ducky. This’ll be with us for ever.’

Unable to settle to anything until the afternoon rehearsal, Libby found an old coat and boots and took herself off for a walk to the other end of Allhallow’s Lane and on to the Manor lands. Sidney picked a delicate path behind her, but refused to go any further when she reached rougher ground by the wood.

‘Chicken,’ she said to him, tucking her scarf more firmly round her neck. ‘You’re supposed to be a wild hunter.’

But I’m not, she thought, as she tramped on along the edge of the wood. What am I doing out here taking voluntary exercise?

The answer, of course, was displacement activity. But only a couple of days ago that had been limited to stretching paper and trying to start a new painting. Something had changed. Even her consumption of cigarettes and alcohol had gone down.

An image of Ben sitting in the pub saying ‘You smoke too much,’ popped into her head. Was that the reason? Had she subconsciously cut down on everything to improve her standing with him? If so, it was pretty pathetic. ‘All that skiving off down the pub,’ he’d said. ‘You’re a terrible woman.’ Had he meant it? Surely not, for hadn’t he taken her out to dinner? Kissed her? Intimated quite clearly that he was up for a relationship? Which Libby still found surprising, being unused to even mildly lustful attentions from anybody. But then, thought Libby, what sort of relationship? He certainly seemed to have backed off since Fran appeared on the scene. Perhaps his reputation was deserved, exactly as Peter had said. A bit of a cad. Whiling away the time with her, an unlikely candidate for a flirtation, until a more suitable choice came along in the shape of Fran.

A more likely cause was the obvious one. Not only had there been the incidents connected with the theatre and the play to worry about, now there was the far more horrific reason of murder. How could anyone connected with such an event fail to be changed in some way? Although Libby felt it would have been far more in character to have smoked even more, as she normally did in times of stress. In fact, it had been the ex’s defection that had started her smoking again after a gap of five years.

Something had happened to her, anyway. She suddenly felt more grown-up, an unaccustomed state, as she had firmly maintained a mental age of eighteen inside her head. Always slightly surprised to find herself with children, and worse, adult children, she was privately convinced that she was playing at coping with life, that none of this should be thrown at her. One day she would wake up and someone else would have taken charge.

But not any longer. Now she was responsible. Not for the accidents, not for the murder, but just possibly for the events which had set them in train. Funnily enough, this didn’t make her feel guilty, merely determined to do something to set things to rights, although no remedy came immediately to mind. She was an adult, she had to deal with things, with her life. And that meant consigning all her schoolgirl angst over Ben to the bin. She turned back along the edge of the wood to collect Sidney.

True, the play had shaped up very well, even Emma, playing Hetty’s character, had pulled herself together yesterday and began to show a fraction of the talent previously exhibited, but the atmosphere in the theatre was hardly conducive to a sense of wellbeing. And then, of course, she thought miserably, there was Ben’s absence. She picked up a resisting Sidney and tucked him under her chin. Up until ten days ago, Ben’s absence was a fact of life, which meant nothing to her. Rather, it was his unaccustomed presence that was the problem. But since then, when she had realised that the discomfort she felt whenever he was around arose from simple attraction, things had changed. For a start, he had let it be known that the attraction was mutual and then there had been his help with the set, their dinner date … her mind trailed off into memory and speculation, the “what if” syndrome indulged in by romantic teenagers.

Sidney struggled and clawed her shoulder. Libby cursed and let him jump down. Time to go back and get ready for rehearsal.

While she was getting changed, Flo telephoned to tell her that Lenny had asked if he could come that afternoon instead of Tuesday to stay with Hetty as previously arranged.

‘He said you’d know why,’ Flo concluded, a question in her voice.

Libby frowned. ‘I’m not sure I do,’ she said slowly. After all, it could merely be that Libby had told him to court Flo or, again, it could be something to do with the theatre.

‘Well, he’s staying in my spare room. Come over and see us if you like.’ Flo sounded almost embarrassed.

‘I will. Thanks.’ Libby was grinning as she put down the phone. If Flo and Lenny were getting together, it was one of the few good things that had happened over the past week.

When she arrived at the theatre, the front doors were unlocked and lights were already on back-stage. Keen, thought Libby.

‘Hallo. Anybody there?’ she called, walking down to the stage. She pushed open the pass door and called again. ‘Stephen? Harry? Pete? Anybody?’

‘Who the hell has been in here and left the lights on?’ she muttered, having completed an entire circuit of the building, lighting box and all. She went back-stage to the stage door and tried the handle. It was open.

For what seemed like several minutes, but was probably only seconds, Libby stood there, listening. The only sounds she could hear were her own heartbeats, which had increased in speed until she felt almost breathless. With a sudden burst of energy, she whipped through the door and locked it behind her. If there was anyone in there, they could stay in there until she got back with some help.

‘Hey! What’s the problem?’

Peter was steadying her with firm hands.

‘There’s someone in there,’ Libby panted. ‘It was open when I got here.’

‘Well, I expect it’s one of the crew.’

‘No,’ Libby shook her head violently. ‘I’ve looked.’

Peter put her aside gently and went round to the front doors. Libby followed. ‘Stay here,’ he said.

‘No fear. I’m coming with you. You might get hurt,’ she added as Peter turned a look of surprise on her.

The theatre was as empty as it had been before, the stage door shut from the outside by Libby herself.

‘Are you sure it was open?’ Peter folded his arms and looked down at her severely.

‘Positive. All the lights were on and the stage door was actually standing open. And the front doors were unlocked. I thought either you or – or – someone had got here early.’

‘Well,’ Peter sighed. ‘I suppose we’d better go and check that everything’s in working order.’

‘And safe,’ Libby reminded him as she followed him back in to the scenery dock.

‘Just don’t tell Ben,’ said Peter darkly as he began on a round of checking ropes and stage weights.

‘What’s going on?’ Stephen appeared behind Libby and made her jump.

‘The theatre was open when I got here, but no one was inside. We’re just checking that everything’s OK.’

‘This is getting beyond a joke,’ muttered Stephen, as he went off to accompany Peter.

Nothing had been touched. The rest of the technical crew arrived, checked and double-checked, while members of the cast appeared and started showing alarmingly thespian tendencies to panic. Libby calmed them down and managed to get them all changed and on stage for a briefing. Apart from a propensity for looking over their shoulders for the first ten minutes or so, the performance began well. The new Lizzie was put through her paces until murmurs of insurrection threatened to turn into outright mutiny, short scenes were done over and over again until Libby was certain they could be performed in the actors’ sleep. At the end of the afternoon, she pronounced herself satisfied.

‘Dress tomorrow,’ she reminded them unnecessarily, ‘so only one more chance. And now I’d like to go back to the scene in the hut. Just once. We can’t afford to be superstitious about it, and we aren’t flying the roof now, anyway.’

The stage was set once more to the scene that represented to Libby the beginning of the problems. And, of course, the beginning of the tragedy that still, apparently, haunted Ben’s family.

Chapter Twenty-two – 1943

T
HE SHOUTING WAS COMING
nearer. Hetty felt herself shivering as she pressed further into the bed, the straw pricking her bare skin through the thin mattress cover. Next to her, Millie was asleep, a grubby fist hanging from the corner of her mouth, her warm baby smell enveloping them both.

‘Where is she?’ A shattering bang on the hut door rattled the corrugated iron roof. Hetty closed her eyes tightly, her heartbeats shaking her body, drumming in her ears as she recognised her father’s voice. The noise increased, and she heard other doors opening, women’s voices.

‘She’s inside, Ted.’

Her mother’s quiet voice sliced through the uproar. Hetty stopped breathing.

‘Fetch her out.’ Silence. Then – ‘I said fuckin’ fetch her OUT.’

Her father’s scream was punctuated with the unmistakable sound of her mother’s head hitting the door and Hetty pressed herself further into the straw and faggots, tears sliding down her cheeks. As the door was thrown open a cold draught of air chilled her through her dress and she heard the scrape of her father’s boots on the floor.

‘Get up.’ His breath was sour as he bent down, grabbing a handful of hair.

‘Cow. Slut. I said, get up.’

Hetty struggled to a sitting position, her eyes wide as she faced him, his expression wild and murderous. Without warning, her head was smacked back against the whitewashed wall and she was aware of nothing except the ringing in her ears until a warm trickle ran round her neck and under her dress. Millie was crying and Lenny supported their mother, who stood, white and silent, her eyes blank. Uncle Alf and Aunt Connie hovered in the doorway.

‘Leave her now, Ted.’ Uncle Alf tried to pull her father away, but he shook off the importuning hand, swearing violently, lifting his fist to strike her again. Hetty cringed back against the wall and Millie’s wails renewed themselves in panic.

‘Ted.’ Her mother’s voice was a thread, but it stayed the approaching hand. ‘Leave her. Enough.’

The sudden silence seemed to reverberate in Hetty’s eardrums like her own pulse beat. Then, with a disgusted oath, Ted Fisher flung himself up and out of the hut in one clumsy movement. Uncle Alf and Lenny followed him.

‘Let’s go down the pub, then, Ted. Give yer a chance ter cool off.’ Alf’s conciliatory voice could be heard as the little group moved off to the underlying accompaniment of the murmur of women’s voices. In the hut, the silence was complete, even Millie had stopped crying, huddling up to Hetty’s side, her thumb back in her mouth.

‘Let your mother lie down, Hetty …’ Aunt Connie pushed the door shut quietly. ‘You go and see if the fire’s still in down the cookhouse. Put the kettle on.’

Hetty moved awkwardly on the uncomfortable mattress, one arm clutched round Millie, her head throbbing and a paralysing ache in her throat. Aunt Connie pushed her mother gently down beside her and Hetty lowered her eyes.

‘Hetty.’ Her mother laid a cold hand on her daughter’s arm. ‘That Warburton. He’s done this. Hasn’t he?’

‘Has he?’ Hetty whispered, staring at her mother, confusion in her eyes.

Hetty’s mother sighed and closed her eyes. ‘He’s told your father.’

Hetty continued to stare at her mother until Aunt Connie’s voice broke the silence.

‘They’ve gone, Hetty. Go and get that kettle on.’

Unwillingly, Hetty dragged herself to her feet, her head swimming. She felt sick, and had to lean against the wall until the nausea subsided. The long row of huts was quiet, the glow of individual cooking fires and half open doors casting tiny pools of light, while slight movements gave away the presence of interested watchers in the shadows.

‘Go on, Het. They’ve gone now. You’re all right,’ someone called, and the chorus was taken up. ‘You’re all right, Het. Don’t worry, Het. Evil bastard, ain’t ’e?’

Then Flo was beside her.

‘Warburton stirred it, Het.’

‘Mum said.’ Hetty hugged her arms round herself, shivering. ‘How did she know?’

Flo shrugged. ‘You can’t do anything here. ’Course she knew.’

‘Everything?’ Hetty’s frightened whisper stopped Flo as they walked slowly down the line towards the cookhouse.

Flo smiled ruefully. ‘I expect so, Het. Everything.’